Re: psychoceramics: This dead-dove/Neutopia thang...

[nmcnelly @ acs.bu.edu (N.A.F. McNelly)]

>Okay, I've been lurking around here long enough.
>This Neutopia/dead things/stalking aspect has got my curiosity.
>Mention was made of this bizness making the local papers, but
>the local papers WHERE?  Am I safe where I am (NOT IN CALIFORNIA),
>or do I need to move again?  Thanks.....


Amherst, MA - The following is from a local paper there.  I knew
I had one salted away on one of my hard drives.  (I also have a
hilariously bad poem from the "Sagan Saga" he mentions, but it's
very long, so I'll refrain).

If she becomes "interested" in you, moving will not save you.
Geertjan Wielenga (a former potential Gaia Messiah) lived in
South Africa, after all.

Nancy

------------------------------------------------------------------
Terror in the Tofu
by Joel Stanley

It must be in the beans.  Like any other lunch time.  Earthfoods
packed them in off the Tofu Deck.  Academic chit chat comprised
of pyrrhic pedagogical accomplishments only relieved by
declaring Spring Break destinations.  I ate alone out of my sack
of recycled foods having been told before by diners they just
want to eat.  And not kibbutz over kasha.

Praise be!  Enter the Gaia Goddess aka Doctress Neutopia of the
Lovolution aka Emily Dickinson reincarnated.  I know.  She
steals flowers off her grave.  Rejected by the masses like me,
she takes her usual seat beside me.

There's the usual terse intros with a jab at Clinton "that
crazed asshole" as she shows off her purloined copy of Rush
Limbaugh's best seller.  I am compared to him as his evil twin.
A radical rag editor stops to accept a poem of her Eco-topia.
Just last week she had cussed him out royally for refusing to
publish her gossip of Gaian goddess proportions that rips in to
all scholars, artists to administrators to world leaders save
none.

Now enter Svetlana, positive, bubbly, energized, together, "with
it" 90's take charge woman.. She at once begins to speak of
inner peace, casting off burdens of fear for fear's sake, living
and moving openly, not trying to take on the world, but produce
changes within, not hung up and sick over wars, pin headed
presidents and all the big pricks that run the system.  But,
instead, finding your own space, calm and zen.  In hopes, in
dropping strong hints; some will rub off.

But counters the angered frothing Mother Nature witch crone hag
of anti-system systems kicking up sand like a 3-year old in a
sand box, "No we gotta fight oppression and take over the sick
system, change it or destroy it.  There's no middle ground."
Something she's spent two decades doing and all she's got to
show for it is a study full of papers and wild frenetic art and
biospherian slogans condemning patriarchy hung out on old torn
sheets (from the Survival Center) beneath her bedroom with its
futon full of cat hairs.  Frat boys boldly leap onto her porched
parapets adjacent to Frat Row on Friday nights and steal her
sheets heralding their sins with hubris.

Even Carl Sagan's son wasn't exempt from her Lovolution of
non-sexual eros as she calls it. She wrote the 1,000 page "Sagan
Saga" ode to him in absentia.  The beheaded mourning dove left
in his mailbox as her calling card was the last straw.  He took
her to court for sexual harassment.  She couldn't accept that he
chose not to return the tired tortured tome. Secretly she pined
for access to his lucrative publishing contacts.

Queen ideologue of her self made sci-fi empire on paper she
imagines herself ruling a world wide make-over.  It's still a
system, though.  Ah, system!  This is the stuff of springtime
revolutionaries that all went the way of Abbie Hoffman and Amy
Carter.  The Doctress was there when they beat the CIA off
campus.  I snuck into their victory party.

Most students are booking flights to Fort Lauderdale.  She books
flights of fancy of what a world could be but never will.  For
it is a model of intolerable egocentric system of one, her in
charge of confronting phallic ivied towers with venomous
negativity non-stop in their patriarchal faces.  For now she
wages this war single-handedly with tongue and pen excoriating
and alienating all she can't change in an instant into total
compliance of blood, sweat and tears in forging a topography of
90-story geodesic domes and UFO's.  Not jumping on this
bandwagon makes one a capitalist patriarchal pig.  Is it
coincidental that recent vandalism at Biosphere II occurred on
her purported visit there? (3/94)

I am silent, spell bound as the two goddesses go at it over
lunch on the run, roiling in the gorgonzola and garbanzo.  I
listen like a bug-eyed boy to the two "moms" of the new universe
at the kitchen table verbally rehashing the globe child, pushing
it flat to out of round even as babies emerge lopsided,
flat-headed.  They are creating a world in their image versions,
self-serving enough but not fit for the masses' consumption.  A
tussle ensues as words fly faster than chairs in a Geraldo show.
A struggle is breaking out into a war of words flung over beans
'n' rice with audience of 100, cast of 2-1/2 (the 1/2 me). Just
what she's wish for, die for.  Svetlana is holding her own,
imploring softly, humanistically holding out the communitarian
carrot of kindness to self, others, especially self.  Citing
inanimate qualities that carry one well on clouds amidst daily
confusion.

The Doctress is bold upright rigid, her whole body flashes
denial.  Flipping through Rush Limbaugh, she tries to regain
control, calling the bloated buffoon of political debauchery
every damning name, saying, "He must be exposed, now."  How
she'll write him a poison pen letter on the Internet tonight to
entertain punks, weirdos and hackers who'd rather expunge her.
Tonight's the night!  The world's gonna end, she sez, so it's no
time to be chillin' out.  Got a date with the computer.  Driving
me mad on the infobahn.

I try to interject, get a word in sideways bringing balance.  "I
say it's *both*.  We need to let go of fear, be vigilant, seek
change and do it collectively."

Well, she goes ballistic laying all the anger on to me.  "That's
chaos," she repeats.  I reply, "Wavy Gravy, the Woodstock 60's
clown, teaches that chaos is when the fun begins."  "No it
doesn't," she bellows.  She leaps up with "Fuck you.  Go to
hell, I don't ever want to see you again," thus ending a 10-year
friendship.  Her arms flail as she screams to a larger audience,
propelling herself around the crowded lunch room.  She calls
down the fire and brimstone of "Revolution, Now!" starting with
a "March on Whitmore for free tuition but first we'll take free
food from Earthfoods."  Academic wannabees stop aghast mid-bite.
Only a few younger men, her usual followers, "Rah!  Rah!" from
the back of the hall in counterpoint to her shrill spleen
venting.  Then with a flourish of silk scarves and Parisian
clothes combined with early funk bought with her father's trust
fund which are the proceeds of the rape of the North Carolina
rain forest, she's off.  Only to do it again next week.

I call out, "Chaos is fun!" echoing it as she exits grandly.
"No it isn't," she quickly retorts, grimacing, barely glancing
at all the wanted attention now hers.  The vice chancellor and
my campus lawyer flank me frozen, balancing plates of R and B,
wondering at the strange music from such fare, reading my face
for answers.  I have none.  Earthfoods declares these bizarre
outbursts from various flakes to go with the turf 'n' tofu.

But why am I dragged into the maelstrom?  Goddesses are beyond
accountability and never have to apologize, having free license
to cut up others by virtue of croneship.  Dare I act out such
brazen rudeness by any other name it would surely be Bobbitry
time!  I never felt smaller.

................................................................
Nancy McNelly                    |
                                 |        May the ta'ho'olob
http://www.he.net/~nmcnelly/     |       who voted for the CDA
Mayan hieroglyphic syllabary     |       tz'isob haway sotz'ob.